


Smother

by 796116311389



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ficlet, M/M, Trying to get back in my groove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 12:16:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/796116311389/pseuds/796116311389
Summary: It's a terrible thing.An awful thing choking the air from his lungs, suffocating him.





	Smother

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet as I try to get back my writing groove to write an AU fic I want.

It's a terrible thing.

An awful thing choking the air from his lungs, suffocating him.

The window is open and a breeze gently moves his curls. The sun is peeking through patchy clouds. Its hateful. The world is hateful. London is always raining and on the day he has ruined everything is the day the sun decides to grace the city.

He looks to the street below. No one is about. Not people, nor cars. It's as quiet as it can get for the city at midday.

The breeze comes through the window again. It carries on it the smell of wet asphalt and the odour of something sweet.

He tries to swallow futilely against the tightness in his throat, his chest. It's best he get over himself, he always knew he was bound to ruin things. It's who he is. He's a dreadful storm of a person, tearing through others secrets, leaving them exposed, lives wrecked in his wake. He can't help himself and usually he wouldn't care to, but this time, just for once, he wishes he had.

He gives a soft sigh.

If he hadn't opened his mouth he could have kept the status quo. His thoughts drift to John's face, his very expressive face. That same face this morning as it shuttered closed after Sherlock let slip an unfortunate sentiment.

Stupid.

Terrible.

His fingers twitch. He longs to hold a cigarette and take a long drag. He's already choking, it's not like the cigarette smoke would do him any worse at this point; And, besides, breathing's boring.

He looks away from the window and back towards the kitchen. His lips tighten as he recalls the screech of John's chair as he shoved it backwards and stumbled to his feet. The sound of his footfalls as he practically ran from the flat, leaving his jacket behind in his haste. Likely would have run away without his shoes if he hadn't already had them on his feet.

Sherlock gives a ghost of a smile at the thought.

There's a click of the downstairs door shutting. Sherlock whips his head around to look back outside. He missed John coming back. He turns to face the door to the hall.  
He listens to John's unmistakable tread as it calmly navigates the 17 steps to 221B Baker Street. He hopes it's good that John is climbing the stairs so deliberately, but there's no way to actually tell what it means until John walks through the sitting room door.

It's awful.

It's the longest Sherlock has ever waited in his entire life. All 20 seconds of it.

He manages to imagine every awful scenario and then some in that interminable amount of time.

The door to the sitting area creaks open and John is standing there, breathing slowly, his beautiful expressive face soft and open. Sherlock reads him like a book, but stops himself. He doesn't want to spoil the ending.

John takes a deep breath and looks straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"I love you too."

At Sherlock's neck a breeze ruffles the curls at his nape.


End file.
